The
PI doesn't stand for private investigator - it's the number PI. So don't
screw with me - I can knock you out with maths and science before your
lawyer can say Yahtzee.

I meet a lot of
dames in this line of work. You could say I was a ladies man. You could
say it, but it'd be a lie. I haven't made love to a dame since Princess
Di died. Sweet Jesus, every time I see a woman, I just think of the
Queen of Hearts and well up inside.

And another thing,
don't get me started about the taxes. Jeez, I wouldn't mind paying taxes,
but it all goes to the Government. Gone are the days when the Mafia
and the Church took their cut. And ladies? Sweet manna from heaven!
I haven't made love to a dame since Mother Theresa died. Every time
I get close to a gal I think of all her charity work in Calcutta and
I just break down.

Chicago is a swell town.
Not too many pheasants, not too many icebergs, just right for a tough-guy
like me. When I was a kid my pop used to tell me: "pop!". That's
how he got his name. His real name was Denise - go figure.

So anyways, I was sleeping
in this dumpster when I spot Hank. Hank Polanker was a bigshot back in Mill
Hill, when the optometrist trade was at it's peak in the fifties. He could
fix your eyes faster than you could say Yahtzee! I used to sleep with his
wife Janice before she joined the Foreign Legion. Hot Damn! She was a sweet
piece of pie. I haven't made love to a dame since Peggy Lee died. Every time
I get naked with a lady I think of old Peggy singing the "Alleycat Song"
and my libido goes to Siam. It ain't easy being Mr Pachowlski, I can tell
you that in an hour.

So anyways, me and Hank
get chatting about the old times, and he tells me that Bisto Jenkins is in
town. Now me and Bisto go way back. We used to run cattle out of Tescos in
the forties. Back then Hendon was more than just a police training centre
and I was quite a hit with the girls of North West London. Of course nowdays
it's different. I haven't made love to a woman since Florence Nightingale
died. Sweet Crawford! Nobody could hold a candle to Florence - she was made
of wax and would get terrified.

So anyways, Bisto Jenkins
was a big fat mobster. He blamed it on his glands, but he didn't get the nickname
Buffalo Wings by sewing wings onto buffalos. Back in Capetown in the twenties
me and Bisto used to be hermaphrodites, but transgender dysmorphia fell out
of fashion and we ended up as small-time crooks. We were very small-time.
We'd only work Sundays, robbing churches and erroneous synagogues. We made
an honest living, but robbery was never for me, it played havoc with my sciatica.

So anyways, it turns out
Bisto is now married to my ex-wife Martha and is living in the flat above
me. Turns out he's been living there for twenty-five years and married the
ex-missus back in the seventies with Ray Parlour was running Whitehall. So,
me and Bisto hit the town and quicker than you can say Yahtzee, there are
dames all over him, begging for some kind of carnal resolution.